I don’t know how long the silence lasts between us, but eventually, his phone interrupts the quiet with directions: “Your destination is on the right.”

We pull in and stop at the end of the lane. It doesn’t look like a destination to me. It looks like a dirt alley leading into a dense forest. Mike lowers his window. The first thing I hear is the soft whistle of an unrecognizable songbird, and a natural silence that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced in the city, not even in a park.

Mike puts the car in gear and continues onto the lane. More trees on either side. There are trees everywhere. The driveway leads to a stone house up ahead. It’s big, older than it looked in the photo, but plain, unspectacular, with thick hedges around one side. There’s a weathered green sign out front that I can’t read from here.

Mike pulls into a parking spot and turns off the car.

“Come on,” he says.

I don’t want to get out of the car. I want to go back to the city, to my apartment. I don’t even care about my bags. He can throw them out if he wants. I want to sit in my chair. I want to lie in the same slumping bed that I know. I rub a hand over my bad knee. My head throbs.

He comes around to my door, helps me up, and holds my arm as we walk toward the front door. I straighten my shoulders as best I can. The path to the door is uneven, and I have to watch my feet so as not to trip. We’re close enough now that I can read the green sign:

SIX CEDARS RESIDENCE

My palms are sweaty. There’s a click as the door unlocks. Mike opens it and looks back at me. I hesitate.

“Here we are,” he says.

Mike helps me through the door into a foyer. I step from the stone path onto hardwood floor. It’s newer inside than it looked from the outside. There’s a long coffee table with a bouquet of fresh roses sitting on it and two leather chairs. Mike takes a step closer.

I hear music: the faint sound of a violin.

“Hello?” Mike calls out.

He leans down and raps his knuckles firmly on the top of the table.

I’m trying to take it all in, process this place, when I hear high heels walking down a wooden staircase to the left of the door. A woman in a red dress appears. She’s tall, lean. Her long hair is brushed back neatly off her face. I would guess she’s about the same age as Mike, maybe fifty? Or maybe she’s closer to sixty. It’s hard to say.

She stops in front me, grinning. “You must be Penny,” she says.

She’s beautiful. Her voice is warm, sincere, welcoming. She reaches her hand out toward me. I instinctively take hold of it. Her nails are perfectly manicured, painted the same color as her lipstick and dress.